


Syringa Vulgaris

by babykid528



Category: Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner
Genre: Depression, Gen, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 02:02:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babykid528/pseuds/babykid528
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It's Gerald's idea, which really means it's Mrs. Bland's idea, to head to the Lilac Sunday celebration with all of Gerald's "new little friends" in tow. It's the end of first year, or nearing the end, and Mrs. Bland thinks they should celebrate. What better way to do so than with a party in a beautiful garden surrounded by hundreds of varieties of purple and white flowers?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Syringa Vulgaris

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own these characters - they're property of the Faulkner estate. I'm not making any money from this. Just obsessing unhealthily over a broken boy.
> 
>  
> 
> Given the subject matter in the book, which this fic is based on, I would feel remiss not to give a **possible trigger warning for mostly veiled suicidal thoughts**.

It's Gerald's idea, which really means it's Mrs. Bland's idea, to head to the Lilac Sunday celebration with all of Gerald's "new little friends" in tow. It's the end of first year, or nearing the end, and Mrs. Bland thinks they should celebrate. What better way to do so than with a party in a beautiful garden surrounded by hundreds of varieties of purple and white flowers?

"It's like the North's version of wisteria," she says to Quentin with a wide, painted smile and a wink.

Shreve points to an area on the map of the Arnold Arboretum that they were given when they arrived and says, "Wisteria is the North's wisteria. Actually."

She just waves him off and searches for another cigarette. Shreve rolls his eyes so only Quentin can see, then jerks his head away from the crowd.

"Come on."

Quentin looks to the rest of their party then: Mrs. Bland is flirting mercilessly with some older gentleman while Gerald leers at the gentleman's coquettish daughters. Quentin's throat grows tight at the sight, as the scene blurs with memory and faces and names are replaced in his mind.

_Have you ever had a sister?_

He shakes that thought right out of his head and slips away with Shreve unnoticed and unapologetic.

It will likely be a while before Mrs. Bland notices they're missing. Or, rather, notices Quentin is missing. She doesn't seem to pay much mind to Shreve, a fact that Shreve says small prayers of thanks for, often and sincerely. She's caught up in the remnants of Southern gentility that Shreve has only caught a glimpse of from stories Quentin has shared. The Canadian holds no allure as far as Mrs. Bland is concerned. Quentin, on the other hand, seems to lure her to him like the cliched moth to the flame. It's an apt descriptor of the situation: Mrs. Bland does seem to do nothing but hover about him, though Shreve likes to point out that she spends all that time displaying herself like a moth who thinks she's really a butterfly; and Quentin certainly feels like he's caught in some white-hot inferno. (On his roughest nights, at least once a week since April came and went, he tosses beneath his sheets and dreams of still, deep waters, wishing they could douse the burning ache deep within him. He can never quite reach the mirrored surface though, no matter how desperately he tries.)

They reach a small branch (Shreve would laugh and correct Quentin that it's just a brook and branches grow on trees), and they stop, staring at the vegetation around them, and listening to the seemingly distant sound of laughter and music, somehow drowned out by the faint murmur of the water a few steps away.

"It shouldn't surprise me after all these months, but I can't believe we agreed to come along on this outing," Shreve says, breaking the silence that had been wrapping itself tightly around Quentin for the last few minutes.

"We didn't have much of a choice," Quentin admits, trying his best to sound wry and not startled. Shreve gets this pinched look about him whenever Quentin startles out of his thoughts around him, like it's a personal offense that Quentin's mind went elsewhere, like Shreve's afraid Quentin really can't stand him enough to be present. It's not a look Quentin likes to see. He can't help the way his thoughts pull him under, even if his company is good. His thoughts are heavy and he has a hard time focusing on anything but them. Plus, Quentin genuinely likes Shreve's company and he hates to think he might make Shreve think otherwise. Shreve's been a good friend, a good roommate. He pushes and pulls and get Quentin to break his solitude, but he also gives Quentin the space to just wallow in it. He doesn't seem to understand how much that means to Quentin. Or maybe he does and he just let's it go unsaid.

Shreve doesn't get that look now though, he just smiles, missing that Quentin hadn't really been present in the moments before.

He says, "It's a nice enough place on a nice enough day. I just couldn't have taken another moment with Gerald and the Moth."

Quentin almost doesn't have to force the smile he responds with and it's like Shreve can tell. Shreve who seems to have learned since August the difference between Quentin trying to be 'normal' for Shreve's sake and Quentin actually being 'normal' for once. (Normal. What exactly is normal?)

Shreve's smile widens and they continue to stand still, together, and Quentin fights the urge to sigh. Instead, he takes a deep breath and holds it a moment, almost happy in a way he hasn't been for many months, and notes that the heavy perfume of the lilac blossoms is nothing like the sneaking scent of wisteria, or the painful lingering bouquet of honeysuckle that just can't be escaped when he's back home.

Then again, maybe lilacs are some northerner's honeysuckle. Maybe the scent of lilacs choke the rational thought out of someone who grew up surrounded by them, who feels they're a daily reminder that he doesn't fit in his own skin, and he never will, and who still feels the weight of historical expectation from a society who would burn him alive if they only knew...

Shreve's fingers brush against the back of Quentin's hand and it's like being anchored, sudden and fast. Quentin wonders if he might get whiplash from it, this sudden pull back to now. Shreve doesn't look concerned though. He just keeps his eyes on the water in front of them and continues to brush his fingers against Quentin's.

Quentin presses his hand back against Shreves, barely, and continues to look at the water. He wonders, idly, how deep it runs.


End file.
